


Kind Lovers

by Fancifullauren



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I just can't with these two, Kisses, M/M, They are too cute to be allowed to exist, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancifullauren/pseuds/Fancifullauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plotless fluff between an uncommon pair.  Cue kisses and kind words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kind Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> For [une-amie-de-labc](http://une-amie-de-labc.tumblr.com)

The upstairs room of the Musain was empty except for two bodies - an intrepid poet and his studious lover. “Combeferre,” sang Prouvaire as he waltzed up to him, placing a light purple flower behind the student’s ear. 

“What is it, Jehan?” asked Combeferre in response, albeit a bit exasperated. 

“Oh, nothing much,” he mused, “I was just wondering if you wanted to maybe go out and get some tea or scones with that creamy sugary frosting on top and perhaps find a field or a park and lay down and talk about life and death and birds and love, perhaps write a bit down, for future reference in poetry; we could write poetry together, too; that would be nice. And then we can cuddle in the grass and stare into each other’s eyes until the sun sets and then we can watch the stars and maybe hold hands. If that’s okay with you, that is.” 

Combeferre resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Sit, Prouvaire,” he instructed, and Jehan was all too happy to oblige, fluttering down onto the seat with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for a grown man to possess. “Now,” continued Combeferre, “what did we talk about last night?” 

Jehan pondered the question for a moment, before spouting out “Philosophy.” 

“Yes, and then what?” 

“Cooking.” 

“And after that?” 

“Well, we didn’t do much talking after that, Combeferre, unless you’re referring to the wonderful communication our bodies were having together, in which case I’d say we talked of the consummation of our love with utmost devotion.”

Color rose to Combeferre’s cheeks. “No, Jehan... I mean, yes, but... I’m working, you see? Remember when I told you that I needed space to work?”

“Yes, I do!” Prouvaire proclaimed happily, “But it’s been hours upon hours that I’ve been staring at you; my craving your perfect lips has been the only thing to keep me awake. You look so marvelous when it's pursed in concentration, that spectacular cupid's bow of yours, did you know that? Then they relax and turn up into a little smile when you’ve made a breakthrough, and you look like an angel. It’s quite the remarkable sight. Why, I’ve been occupying myself with writing poetry based upon those perfect lips. Would you like to read it?”

The medical student couldn’t help but grin at the praise, but didn’t take his eyes off of his textbooks as he pushed his glasses up the rim of his nose. Taking the opportunity, Jehan got off his chair in order to perch himself on Combeferre’s lap.

“You look delightful in your spectacles.” 

“Thank you, Jehan. But do you not have better things to do than scribble phrases about me?” 

Jehan looked positively insulted. “Better things to do? I should think not! To capture your essence in the written word is to immortalize the beauty that resides in your soul for me to pick up later and remember every trace of you from lines on a paper. It’s exquisite, isn’t it, poetry?” 

He leaned his face into Prouvaire’s cheek. “You’re exquisite,” he mumbled into his ear. He couldn't resist doting upon his lover every now and again, the only way he knew how to: with words. Though not as talented as his friend, he knew the basics of pleasing people with compliments.

Jehan chuckled. “You think so?” 

“I know so,” Combeferre finally conceded, planting feather-light kisses onto the side of his poet’s face. Contented sighs resulted from Jehan melting into the affection. He angled his head so that he could better kiss the student. 

Their soft lips met each other in a lazy and gentle manner. Prouvaire stroked the sideburns coming down Combeferre’s face, while he in turn wrapped his thin arms around the larger, more muscular man sitting on his lap. Jehan felt his lover smile onto his lips. 

“Do you really think my glasses look cute?” He asked, lips lightly brushing those of his lover. 

The young man laughed. “The cutest.” 

“Cuter than when I don’t wear them, though?” 

Jehan just nuzzled forward until his mouth was pressed up against Combeferre’s ear. “Une rose d’automne est plus qu’une autre exquise.” 

His warm breath made its way inside Combeferre’s ear, making him shiver. The grip around the intrepid man’s waist tightened. Jehan slowly licked the curve of his outer ear.

“Must you always speak in riddles?”

“You ask many questions for someone with so much knowledge,” he hummed, nipping the lobe. 

Combeferre sighed - not an exasperated sigh, but a calm one. One that showed a secure contentment. “Knowledge must be acquired somehow. Questions, whether they are spoken or not, are the means by which all knowledge is attained.” His hands began to wander along Jehan’s stomach, making him flinch away ever so slightly when the light touches brushed over more sensitive areas. He did his best to avoid them, knowing the young poet’s body so well, but whenever he did accidentally find them, Jehan would let him know with a little snicker. Whenever he wanted to get his way, he only needed to poke Prouvaire right under the rib cage, and he would be a mess of laughter. Right now, however, was not a convenient time for tickling, so he stuck to mapping out his body above his mismatched clothes. 

The younger man busied himself leaving open-mouthed kisses all along his partner’s jawline and neck. He gasped when he felt his teeth bite down on that one spot, just to the left of his throat, that would never cease to make his breath hitch and his toes curl. 

“I love you,” murmured the poet into the white skin beneath his lips. 

“And I you, my bashful wordsmith” replied Combeferre in a distracted haze. 

“Bashful?” Prouvaire mused, “I should think not.” He punctuated each sentence with a soft nip at Combeferre’s reddening skin. “Gentle, perhaps sometimes, but never bashful. Compassionate, most definitely - like yourself, dear scholar - and a touch sympathetic, but bashful? No.” Emphasizing his point, he bit down hard on Combeferre’s neck, which pulled a soft moan from the latter’s mouth. He brought his left hand up to stroke his bold lover’s hair.

“Intrepid, then,” Combeferre managed to say between heavy breaths, “or audacious.” 

“Surely ‘audacious’ and ‘gentle’ are antonyms,” Jehan muttered. 

Combeferre took in a sharp breath, all the while speaking: “You’re a poet; you should know how to use these words to compliment one another.” 

“I know how to express them, too,” he alluded. He abandoned Combeferre’s neck to look him straight in the eyes.

“I truly do love you,” confessed Combeferre. 

Prouvaire leaned forward to press a chaste kiss onto his lover’s cheek.


End file.
